


I Get By (With a Little Help From my Friends)

by Angela



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Three Hunters, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela/pseuds/Angela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We should just try it. I'm not getting any sleep this night, at any rate.”</p><p>Gimli and Legolas are worried about Aragorn. He's taking the loss of Merry and Pippin and his new(ish) responsibilities as leader of the Fellowship very hard. They think he should relax, and they think they know exactly how to go about getting him to.</p><p>This is a shameless PWP. I hope you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Get By (With a Little Help From my Friends)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisafer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at real smut. Let me know what you think, but go easy on me. It's a gift for my sister - a lasting token of one of the many conversations we have had before work. ^_^
> 
> Also, translations for the Sindarin and Khuzdul are in the end notes.

“We should just try it. I'm not getting any sleep this night, at any rate.” Gimli glanced around the forest warily, unhappy with the increasing gloom as twilight deepened.

Legolas leaned against a frightful-looking tree, and Gimli hoped it was not planning to make a meal of them. The elf sighed. “He does have much on his mind. Since Amon Hen, he has been naught but a coil of tension. If he does not relax soon, he will certainly break.” 

Gimli glanced around the huge tree that concealed them, across the clearing, where Aragorn crouched in the cold stream, splashing icy water over his hands and forearms. For days now, man's face had been worn and tired; by Gimli's count he had slept not a moment since leaving the golden wood. Worry for the little hobbits was only the topmost care pulling him down. Beyond that, he was fretful for Frodo and the ring; missing his love, far away in Rivendell; and even anxious about the role he was to play in this war for the ring and the saving of Middle Earth. It was the kind of burden that might destroy a lesser man, but Aragorn seemed made of steel and true silver. Even considering his own lofty dwarven standards, Gimli was ever impressed by what the man could accomplish with the force of his will alone.

“Are you sure he will not be offended?” Legolas worried his lower lip with his teeth, a nervous habit that Gimli had only recently discovered. He found it distracting as hell. “It is an unusual overture.”

Gimli grinned. “Of course I'm not sure. But I wasn't sure that you weren't going to put an arrow through my guts, either, until I steeled up my nerve and just asked.”

Legolas smiled. “You were afraid I'd say no?” he asked, merriment dancing in his eyes.

“I was afraid I wouldn't live long enough to hear the refusal,” Gimli admitted. He nudged his friend's knee affectionately with his own. “How was I to know that you had such a particular fetish for muscles?”

“It is not a fetish!” Legolas protested. He reached for his bow. “And I could kill you yet.”

Gimli only laughed. “Ah, but if you did that, you'd sorely regret it,” he warned, waggling his fingers suggestively.

The elf's ears reddened. “You may be right,” he conceded, smirking. “It is well known that dwarves are excellent with their hands. I would be sorry to rob myself of such skilled work.”

Gimli decided that the tree would probably not eat them after all, so he sat next to his friend, snaking an arm around his waist. “A dwarf does his best when he is inspired by some lovely thing,” he said, nuzzling his lips close to the pink tip of Legolas's ear. “It is lucky for us both that your face is so comely.”

“My face?” Legolas fished. He gasped a tiny sound as Gimli's tongue darted out to trace the curve of his ear.

“Your face. Your hair.” He trailed his lips down to the elf's smooth, golden neck, his beard leaving a pale pink trail across the sensitive skin. “Your voice. Your arse.” He slid one hand beneath Legolas to give that particular comely feature a quick squeeze.

To say that the two had become friends beneath the sheltering canopy of Lórien would have been a vast understatement. The things said and done during their weeks in the golden wood underscored for them both how inevitable their union had become. Even Gandalf had hinted at as much, though neither had recognized it without the clear-eyed sadness of their hindsight. Now, Gimli knew that there would be no separating him from his elf. Legolas was his for as long as the dwarf managed to live. And even beyond, if the elf's romantic promises were to be believed.

“Gimli?” His voice was strained and scratchy.

“Yes, love?” Gimli's hands were sliding beneath the Legolas's tunic, his mouth on the hard edge of his collarbone. The damned elf tasted like honey, somehow. Gimli hoped he would spend forever figuring out why.

“Aragorn.”

For a moment the dwarf was confused. He looked around, expecting the ranger to be standing there, watching. His cheeks flushed at the idea of being caught, though he wasn't sure why, given what they were planning. But Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. Gimli peered around the tree once more, and there he was, way over by the stream, washing out his socks.

“We were going to speak to Aragorn,” Legolas reminded him. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his breeches, his skin flushed like he'd gotten too much sun.

Ah, yes. Aragorn. “You should be the one to ask him,” Gimli decided at once. He could not imagine speaking of such things with the ranger. Doing them, certainly, but not speaking. 

Legolas looked stricken. “I should?” he echoed. “Why me?”

Gimli hadn't realized his elf could be shy; he took a moment to be delighted. “We already know he has a fondness for elves,” he reasoned. 

Legolas looked as though he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “A fondness for Arwen!” he corrected. “I wonder that you had not noticed it, but I am not her.”

Gimli looked the elf over from head to toe. Certainly he had noticed it. On a daily basis he had noticed. “You have your own charms,” he assured his friend, and then spent the next few minutes explaining what those charms were and demonstrating exactly what they did to him.

When they looked up this time, it was nearly full dark. He was sprawled on the mossy carpet of the forest, Legolas kneeling over him, his mouth doing obscene and wonderful things to the skin he could reach beyond the frustrating limits of his tunic and mail. 

“You'll need to be rid of this,” Legolas murmured, his fingers plucking at the rings of his mail shirt. 

“That and much more,” Gimli answered, pulling his hand carefully from where he had tangled it in Legolas's long hair. He wondered if they would make it even as far as suggesting their plan to Aragorn that night. The elf was proving to be quite the distraction. For a moment he considered a quick tumble with Legolas first, just to get it out of their systems, but he dismissed the thought. The ranger deserved them at their best, after all.

As they put themselves into order once more, Legolas looked suddenly into Gimli's eyes. “Gimli,” he began seriously, his voice nervous. “Promise me that this night will not hurt us. The jealously of dwarves is legendary, and even for all the love I bear Aragorn, I still would not put at risk what is between you and me.”

Gimli put his hand on his lover's face, trying to come up the words of trust and devotion that would ease his worries. Finding none, he kissed him. It was slow and gentle and unlike most of the kisses they'd shared before. Mouths moved softly, lips clung, and Legolas wrapped his arms around the dwarf, gathering him close against his chest. Gimli heard a low whimper between them, and to his wonder he realized it was his own voice. He pulled back a fraction, and they looked deeply into each other's eyes, still breathing one another's damp air.

“I trust this,” Gimli whispered, threading his fingers through Legolas's. “I trust you.”

“Then I guess I should go speak to him,” the elf said, an impish smile playing on his lips. He fished his pouch of necessary things from his pack and plucked a small bottle of oil from it. A shiver snaked over Gimli's skin at the mere sight of it. What a night they would have.

If Aragorn said yes.

 

Gimli watched as his friend crossed through the camp and knelt on the grassy creek bank next to Aragorn. The ranger looked up, his tired face breaking into a smile as he greeted the elf. Legolas fidgeted for a moment, but looked more at ease as they began to talk. His hands found a home on the ranger's arm; his whole body smiled. Gimli got up and crept closer, eager to hear what Legolas would say to him. 

It was in Elvish.

For a moment Gimli just stood there, aghast as the smooth, strange syllables washed over him. It shouldn't have surprised him that Legolas would use his own language – a language that Aragorn spoke fluently – to make such a suggestion, but somehow it did. And when Aragorn answered back in kind, surprise was clear in his voice. Gimli did not understand a word.

He bristled. He knew it was unreasonable. He knew that Legolas would never betray him. He knew, after all, that this whole scenario had been his own idea in the first place. And yet the sound of Elvish between them sparked some dark jealousy in his heart. It sounded so private, so separate from anything Gimli would be welcome to participate in.

But then the elf looked up, looked back at him with the most disarming of smiles. He put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder, his fingers beckoning Gimli closer even as he whispered something to the ranger. 

Gimli felt the tightness in his chest unravel. This was Legolas. His Legolas. 

Aragorn shook his head, looking abashed, but pleased. Legolas laughed softly, his eyes flitting back to meet Gimli's again. And then, without taking his gaze from Gimli's face, Legolas pressed a kiss to Aragorn's mouth.

A thrill of desire coursed through the dwarf.

“ _Sevin dhaw?_ ” Legolas asked in a low voice, his fingers trailing across the ranger's stubbly jaw.

Aragorn nodded mutely. 

The elf's fingers were nimble and quick; buttons and laces were undone, even as their mouths met again and Aragorn reached out to touch Legolas. In a matter of moments, Aragorn's belts and tunic were removed and his muscled chest was bare beneath Legolas's skilled hands. Gimli's mouth went dry. He had seen Aragorn in little more than his skin before – traveling together meant bathing in close quarters, after all – but never had he seen him with the intention of touching him. Never before had he seen Legolas's long fingers exploring the curves and ridges of another man's body.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, watching. He was stiff and tight and his whole body ached to be touched, but still he could not move. Legolas was like a force of nature, his tongue flicking out to trace the edges of Aragorn's taut nipples, his hands deftly stripping his hips and legs bare. His movements were fluid, and each caress left Aragorn panting for the next. 

Gimli's hand moved over the bulge in his own breeches, the lightest touch sending a shudder coursing through him. He needed to join in. Soon. But now, he was fascinated, watching.

The elf's clothing came off in ragged desperation, Aragorn yanking and pulling until Legolas's luminous skin was exposed to his hungry mouth. Gimli watched his friend's mouth plunder his lover, each nip and kiss more urgent than the next. Aragorn made love to Legolas like a man half-starved, and it was clear to the dwarf that this was something he'd needed – possibly for a very long time now. 

After just a few minutes of letting Aragorn lead the way, Legolas began to push back, bending the ranger backward on the grassy stream bank. Aragorn's fingers tangled in the long grass and twigs of the forest floor as Legolas moved his mouth over him, teasing moans of torment and delight from his throat. “ _Avo dharo!_ ” he cried as the elf's tapering fingers found their mark. “Legolas,” he panted. “Legolas, please.”

Gimli found he rather liked hearing his lover's name in Aragorn's panting voice, even with that damned Elvish-whatever that came before it. He wondered if he could coax his own name from the ranger – two ragged syllables expressing so much desperate need. Legolas was a quiet lover; Gimli knew not if this was due to the discretion necessary when fucking in a shared camp or whether this was some innate, possibly elvish, trait. Either way, the man's vocal enthusiasm was intoxicating to the dwarf, who often had a hard time keeping quiet himself.

And then the elf was up on his knees again, his fingers, his cock, everything slicked with oil. He grasped Aragorn's hips and turned him to his side. Then, in one careful thrust, he slid into the ranger. Gimli forgot to watch Aragorn, his attention fixated on the fierce control and concentration on Legolas's radiant face. He had seen that expression dozens of times, and yet he knew he would never tire of it. And then the elf's eyes fluttered closed in a moment of bliss, and the two began to move together, slowly and deliberately.

“Gimli,” Legolas suddenly called, his voice strange and stretched, his eyes wild. 

Gimli went to him, barely noticing as his own hands pulled at his tunic, his mail shirt, his breeches, until he, too, was naked and a trail of clothing and gear lay in piles behind him. The shaft between his legs was hard and ready, his whole body throbbing for touch and release.

He knelt beside Legolas, gliding his hand to the small of his back, feeling the muscles there bunch and relax with every thrust and withdrawal. Legolas panted and gasped, one slippery hand sliding around the dwarf's neck and curling around the heavy rope of his braided hair. “Kiss me,” he ordered, breathless.

Gimli obeyed. Legolas clutched at his hair, pulling him back even as his mouth demanded he stay. His tongue darted and the teeth that had so deliciously gnawed his own bottom lip now ravaged Gimli's, stopping just shy of drawing blood. Gimli forgot to breathe, forgot to think, forgot everything past the hungry presence of his lover and the exquisite pain of his hand twisting his hair.

And then another hand snaked around his calf. A hot, damp mouth moving across the skin of his ankle. Aragorn. Gimli moaned against Legolas's mouth, his whole skin aflutter with tiny spasms.

“Gimli,” the ranger murmured, and the need in his voice was exactly as the dwarf had hoped. He tugged at the dwarf's leg, his teeth nipping insistently. “Come here,” he beckoned, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Go,” Legolas whispered against him, the word felt more than heard. He continued to thrust into Aragorn while Gimli lowered himself onto the grass beside the man. 

Aragorn pulled him into his arms at once, fitting his own lips into the space the elf had just occupied. His kiss was just as hungry as Legolas's, just as demanding, but softer and somehow more expert. Intoxicating. He used his teeth not at all, focusing instead on the ministrations of his tongue. Gimli had never been kissed so thoroughly, and he soon wondered what mischief that glorious tongue could manage elsewhere. 

“You've nearly undone me with a kiss, my friend,” Gimli said huskily. He slid his hands down the ranger's muscled shoulders and across his broad chest. It was solid and only lightly peppered with a down of dark hair. He reached lower, lazily trailing his fingers over Aragorn's abdomen. The muscles there contracted and the ranger let out a sound that seemed half moan and half growl.

“Always, you torment me,” the ranger said, combing his fingers through Gimli's beard and scattering light kisses over his mouth and cheeks and forehead. His voice was even low and even more scratchy than usual. “And I would taste you.”

If Aragorn had been an elf, Gimli would have thought his mind had been read. Surely the trick was not one that could be taught. “I would like that,” he replied, his voice all gravel and longing. 

The position was awkward, for Aragorn's movement was limited by the elf's eager fucking, but eagerness provided ingenuity and desperation forgave discomfort. Aragorn's mouth was all Gimli had hoped and more, again far more expert than his or Legolas's novice fumbling had been. For a moment Gimli wondered about this friend of theirs, about his life as a ranger among the Dúnedain. Perhaps nights like this weren't as rare as the dwarf had assumed.

Such musings were banished from his thoughts by a sound from Legolas. It was strangled and primal, from some place deep in his throat or chest. For an instant, Gimli thought his friend was in pain, but, meeting his gaze, he realized that was not the case. 

Legolas stared at them, at the place he and Aragorn were joined, lips to cock in a hungry tempest of licking and sucking. His eyes burned, his lips wet and open.

Gimli thrust his hands into Aragorn's shaggy dark hair, grasping and twisting and pulling the ranger closer, at the same time bucking his hips so that his staff was lost completely in the man's skilled mouth. For a moment, Aragorn's tongue tightened just slightly around him, and Gimli lost Legolas's gaze in a deep shudder. When he found it again, the elf was somehow more intense, more fevered than before. “ _Men lananubukhs menu,_ ” Gimli said to him, quietly and for elf-ears only. It was not a phrase he'd yet taught his lover, but Legolas had heard it often enough by now that he was sure to recognize it, even if he could not pinpoint its meaning. “ _Menu tessu._ ”

Legolas came.

And for once, he was not quiet. A cry seemed ripped from his throat as his fingertips dug, bruisingly, into the ranger's hips. His whole body spasmed with the force of it, almost knocking him off his knees. For a moment, Gimli thought the elf might weep; his face was red and mottled, his eyes glassy. But in the next instant, a familiar smile curved over his beautiful lips, and Gimli noted – not for the first time – that a properly satisfied elf seemed almost to glow.

Aragorn followed but moments later. “By the sea and stars!” the ranger cried, yanking his mouth away from Gimli as his own body shuddered its release.

Gimli took pleasure in his friends' pleasure, but at the same time his enthusiastic cock was left damp and bereft, in need of attention and release. “Come here, you,” he growled, pulling Legolas toward him for a deep kiss. The elf slid from Aragorn and turned to Gimli, pressing his cool skin against the dwarf and roping his arms around his neck. 

Within minutes, Gimli had Legolas on his stomach, his bottle of oil used and discarded on the grass. Gimli took the eager elf, spurred on by the view of his exquisitely rounded buttocks, slick with oil, and the concave curve of his lovely spine. His hair spilled, silky and shining over his shoulders, catching twigs and leaves as he tossed his head, panting and crying out with each of the dwarf's hearty thrusts. 

Aragorn watched lazily from his mossy bed, naked and sweaty and thoroughly satisfied; his smile was slow and mischievous. For a fleeting instant, Gimli had the thought that at that moment he was more Strider than Aragorn, but it was forgotten as Legolas shouted a string of fancy Elvish. Must've found the sweet spot.

Gimli's release came a half-second later, surprising him with its intensity. As he spent himself into Legolas's perfect backside, an avalanche of Khuzdul that any dwarf should be ashamed of sharing came pouring from his lips. By the maker, his language seemed made for such moments. He supposed he would have to trust his friends with those particular secrets that night. 

 

Gimli settled back against a smooth rock, draping Legolas's discarded tunic over his lap, modesty taking him at last. Legolas curled up on the grass beside him, tucking himself under Gimli's shoulder and wrapping his arms around the dwarf's stout middle. He seemed to have no qualms about remaining unclothed, so his skin stayed bare and luminous even as the the chill of the evening began to settle on their overheated bodies.

Aragorn studied them a long moment, a bemused smile lighting his face. “So this is what you two have been up to,” he said at last. “I had thought you were being entirely too quiet these last days.”

A look passed between Legolas and Gimli. “We did not want to disturb you,” Legolas explained frankly. “Though it was not always easy to stay quiet, as you now understand.” Gimli felt his face flush beneath his beard; leave it to the elf to say exactly what was not necessary.

Aragorn sat up and, for the first time, it seemed, thought to cover himself. For a moment Gimli feared that it would be awkward now, that the Three Hunters were irrevocably changed, but the ranger smiled his gentle, easy smile. “Thank you, my friends,” he said softly. “It seems I had great need of exactly this, though I did not recognize it myself.” 

Gimli coughed, suddenly overtaken by a desperate longing for his pipe and some really good weed. “We weren't certain you would – ” he began.

“We didn't want to offend!” Legolas insisted. 

Aragorn laughed. It wasn't the lighthearted, easy laugh Gimli had heard in Rivendell, before the quest began, but it was the best he'd heard since well before Khazad-dûm, at least. “Be easy, my friends,” he said. “You look more nervous now than before we began.”

His light mood eased everything, and the three dressed easily and arranged their camp. “I'll take the first watch,” Legolas offered, as Gimli built a fire of fallen sticks and twigs they had gathered before sunset. 

“It looks as though this night's sport has done for our leader just as we hoped,” Legolas said quietly, some time later, near Gimli's ear. 

The dwarf raised himself from his bed and glanced to Aragorn's bedroll. The ranger's eyes were closed, his mouth open, and he snored lightly. “Sleeping like a dwarrowling,” Gimli said fondly. 

“Distraction can only be our friend in times such as these.” Legolas's voice was heavy and sad.

Merry and Pippin. Of course. Gimli, too, had used the frolic of the evening to distract himself from their purpose for being in the wood at all. “We will find them,” he told Legolas. The hobbits had survived the orcs. Survived the Rohirrim's raid. Surely they could survive Fangorn, terrifying as the place was.

“I hope you are right.” Legolas smiled and sat on the ground next to Gimli's bedroll. He curled his long legs, tucking his knees under his chin. Gimli draped his blanket over the elf's shoulders and slid underneath, shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip with his dearest friend. He knew Legolas wasn't bothered by the chill in the air; the elf liked closeness for comfort's sake. 

For a long time they sat quietly, listening to Aragorn's quiet snoring. “I didn't like the Elvish,” Gimli confessed after a while. There was no point in hiding his one jealousy – by dwarf standards he'd been amazingly open-minded, after all.

Legolas smirked. “I thought not. You looked stricken.”

He didn't have to enjoy it so much. 

“Aragorn wanted you particularly,” Legolas said then, surprising him. Legolas met his startled gaze and laughed softly. “'Only if the dwarf is involved' is a close translation, I think.”

Gimli felt the blush start low in his chest, creep up his neck, and spring from beneath his beard. He glanced to where the ranger slept, feeling a bit shy. “Don't tell him I know,” he urged. 

Legolas laughed again. “Fear not, my love,” he said softly, pressing a kiss against Gimli's temple. And for the rest of both of their watches and well into Aragorn's, they sat close together, keeping the night at bay and letting their exhausted friend enjoy hours of hard-earned sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Sevin dhaw? (Sindarin)  
> \--May I?
> 
> Avo dharo! (Sindarin)  
> \--Don't stop!
> 
> Men lananubukhs menu. (Khuzdul)  
> \--I love you.
> 
> Menu tessu. (Khuzdul)  
> \--You are everything.


End file.
